


Dog Days

by TactheJoker



Category: Country Music RPF, The Voice (US) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TactheJoker/pseuds/TactheJoker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake Shelton is Trace Adkins' puppy, but he's been acting up.<br/>This is the story of how Trace fixes his behavior, and also a glimps into the lives of the other 'pets' and 'owners' of this world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *READ FIRST*
> 
> *IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER*  
> I have no idea how pet-play works in real life, this is just how I would do it if I could.  
> DO NOT TRY PET-PLAY OR ANY KIND OF PARTNER FETISH WITHOUT RESEARCHING THOROUGHLY FIRST. 
> 
> Chapter one of many - eventual Shevine.
> 
> Came up with this after Trace Adkins said to Chelsey Handler about Blake Shelton, "He's like an animal. You gotta spank 'im when he's bad, give 'im a treat when he's good...he's not real smart."

“I’m home!”  
The clatter of claws on the stone tile floor and happy barks greeted Blake; a blue heeler and black and tan cocker spaniel ran to meet him, jumping up to lick his face and sniff him all over. Blake had been gone for a long time on tour, so their joyful reaction to his return warmed his heart. After rubbing their bellies for a while he looked around, expecting one more welcome, but no one else came to see him.  
“Hello?”  
There was no answer.  
A little stab of disappointment nicked Blake’s heart; the one thing he had been looking forward to for this past month was coming home and finding himself wrapped in a loving embrace and receiving a kiss on the cheek – maybe even a little pat on the butt, a promise of a real ‘welcome home’ for later on in the evening. But nothing, nothing and no one.  
He was sure they had just stepped out to the store or something, and he admonished himself for feeling so down about it, but the discontent was there and it wouldn’t leave. Giving the dogs pats on their heads he walked around the house, hoping to find a note or something to explain the absence, but he found nothing, becoming more and more depressed by the minute.  
He let the dogs out, made sure they had water, and let them back in; they took away some of his sadness when he got down on the floor and wrestled with them. That was the wonderful thing about dogs; they were always ready to make you smile, always happy to see you, and were always on your side no matter how many people were against you. They would always love you no matter what.  
After a while, Blake went upstairs to the empty bedroom, the dogs following; he was too tired to entertain any activity other than sleep. Dropping his bags by the closet, he took off all of his clothes save for his navy boxer-briefs and slipped under the sheets; the dogs settled beside the bed for a good long nap, content knowing that one of their owners was home – Blake wished he could say the same. The Oklahoman’s body groaned with fatigue after the long, successful, and lonely, lonely tour; his drooping heart sighed with ache.  
Fortunately, he fell asleep soon after closing his eyes.

* * *

A large hand spanned his chest, palm and fingers calloused after years of farm labor and from strings on the guitar; the hard fingertips plucked softly at his nipple and massaged his furred breast. Blake moaned, stretching his arms over his head, knuckling his eyes; lips kissed just under the hollow of his throat, bristly facial hair tickling his skin. He lifted his hands away from his eyes and peered through his lashes, slightly blinded by the fading rays of the setting sun; another hand caressed his forehead, just as calloused and gentle.  
At last his eyes adjusted to the light, and he gazed into the smiling eyes of Trace Adkins.  
“Mornin’ baby.” Trace’s deep voice rumbled, sending a thrill deep into Blake’s chest. A glowing smile flew to the Oklahoman’s face, and with a joyful cry, Blake threw his arms around his love’s neck and kissed him with need.  
“Oo,” Trace said when they finally broke apart. “Good to know I was missed.”  
Blake buried his face in the crook of the older man’s neck, the long blond hair covering his eyes. “I always miss you.” Blake whispered, tucking his body into Trace’s.  
“It’s alright now,” said the old cowboy as stroked Blake’s curly brown hair. “I’m back an’ I’m not goin’ anywhere without you fer a while.”  
Trace heard Blake sigh, felt him nuzzle into his chest, his long legs weaving around his own, pulling their bodies closer together. The older cowboy smiled and tickled the Oklahoman’s skin with his goatee.  
“Sorry I wasn’t here,” Trace said, skimming his hand down Blake’s quivering side and sliding his lover’s boxers off of the curve of his ass. “Wanted t’get a few things for you.”  
Blake smiled sleepily, tilting his hips to press his growing erection into Trace’s thigh. “Like what?”  
“Y’know, food, music, movies…” He pulled something that clinked out from behind him; it was a tan leather collar with a cluster of five small metal stars on one side, and recently burned into the other side was a trail of deer-tracks.  
Blake’s eyes lit up, and there was almost relief in his expression as he stared at the collar; Trace didn’t think it was possible, but Blake tucked into him even further.  
“You really did miss me, huh?” He felt Blake nod. Trace patted his back and slowly pried himself away from the clinging form.  
“Stay.” He commanded before Blake started whimpering, and got off of the bed; the Oklahoman wanted to follow so much, but he knew better than to disobey, so instead he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, waiting quietly, but with almost uncontained impatience. After a short while, Blake felt something like a belt slide over his throat, and he smiled as he felt it tighten; Trace tugged on the collar, pulling his Dog up and out of the bed down to the wood floor, waiting for him to stretch his sleepiness away.  
“Come on, Blake;” he said when his Dog was done. “Bath-time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bathtime for Blake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *READ FIRST*
> 
> *IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER*  
> I have no idea how pet-play works in real life, this is just how I would do it if I could.  
> DO NOT TRY PET-PLAY OR ANY OTHER SORT OF PARTNER-FETISH WITHOUT RESEARCHING THOROUGHLY FIRST. 
> 
> Chapter two of many - eventual Shevine.
> 
> Came up with this after Trace Adkins said to Chelsey Handler about Blake Shelton, "He's like an animal. You gotta spank 'im when he's bad, give 'im a treat when he's good...he's not real smart."

Blake trotted happily beside Trace to the bathroom, and waited with well-practiced patience by the door as his Master filled the tub and got the shampoo and body-wash ready. Trace tugged at Blake’s collar again and led him into the tub; Blake splashed into the water, the warm liquid coming up to his elbows, and he scuttled around, making waves and water droplets. Trace pressed on his tailbone and Blake sat in the water, enjoying the way it lapped against his belly.  
On his knees with sleeves rolled up, Trace started in on the washing; rinsing him down with the shower-head hose, then squirted body-wash into a washcloth and scrubbed Blake with it. He started on his back and shoulders, worked over his chest and belly – here he had to hold Blake against the side of the tub as his Puppy had a very ticklish tummy, but despite the squirming, laughing yips, and his own deep chuckle, Trace was able to get Blake’s torso clean in a short amount of time.  
He then scrubbed the back of Blake’s neck and cleaned behind and the inside of his ears, making sure they were squeaky clean. Next, he took each of Blake’s hands and feet and washed them individually, taking care to get between his toes and scrub the pads of his feet. After a thorough rinse – which Blake took great pleasure in if the blissful look on his face was any indication; with great care, Trace put cleanser on his puppy’s face. If the rinsing was Blake’s favorite part, he liked this the least, and twitched away one or twice in discomfort, but Trace’s gentle voice and careful hands settled him. He covered Blake’s eyes and sprayed his face, wiping the cleanser off; when he took his hand away, Blake shook, spattering Trace with water, but the cowboy didn’t mind – it was part of the fun of bath-time.  
He did the same for Blake’s hair, scrubbing deep, and enjoying the blissful look on his Dog’s face – Blake enjoyed the massage, he even seemed to like the rinsing a bit, though it was a little more difficult to keep the soap out of his eyes and mouth, but there were no tears in the end, just another good shake that got Trace even more wet, but he let out a deep laugh.  
“Up.” Trace said, lifting Blake’s hips; the Oklahoman rose to all fours, letting Trace get at his crotch and backside. Trace was very thorough and careful; Blake wriggled a little when the cowboy’s hands went between his thighs and cheeks, but Trace remained calm and so Blake was able to do the same.  
Rinse-rinse-rinse, and they were done. Trace got up from his knees, wrapped an arm around Blake’s chest, and slipped his arm between his thighs, splaying his hand on the wet belly.  
“Ooookay,” Trace breathed, planting his feet. “One-two-three-LIFT.” With a great show of strength, Trace lifted Blake from the tub and deposited him on the bathroom rug. He tugged the big towel down from the rung, giving Blake a brisk rub-down. “Who’s a handsome boy?” Trace asked. In answer, Blake jumped up, his damp forearms on Trace’s shoulders, and started nuzzling Trace’s neck and face, touching his Master’s cheeks with his warm and silky tongue. This wasn’t allowed, but Trace didn’t deprive his puppy from showing his love, he couldn’t, at least not now – he didn’t have the heart. Poor Blake had sounded so very sad and lonesome over the phone the last time they talked, missing him so much; Trace dropped the towel and caressed Blake’s face, hugging the naked, wriggling form. He kissed the fuzzy cheek, stroked the wet hair, smoothed it back from his round, moon face; he held Blake’s face in his hands and looked into his bright blue eyes.  
Trace smiled. “I love you, boy.”  
A smile spread across Blake’s face, he’d been longing to hear those words since the first night on tour. He licked the heel of Trace’s hand, a soft, gentle swipe, not turning his eyes away like most Dogs would when confronted with eye-to-eye contact; there was such devotion in those eyes. Other owners would see this as a mark of defiance and would follow with swift discipline or punishment, but Trace wasn’t like most owners. The old cowboy smiled and patted his Dog’s cheek.  
“Sit.”  
Blake dropped back down and sat still, eager to show his pack-leader how good he was at following commands; the feel of the pick Trace ran through his wet, curly hair was heaven. When that was done, the cowboy scrunched the curly hair, fluffing it out; the curls fell in corkscrew ringlets, silver streaks at his temples, waving around his ears. “What a handsome boy you are.” Trace praised as he switched out the collars, the rough old one for the new tan leather with stars and burnt tracks. He sat back on his heels and looked at his Dog, admiring.  
“So handsome.” He said with a smile under his drooping mustache, an almost prideful twinkle in his eyes. He stood and let Blake out of the bathroom; his Dog trotted out and waited for his master in the hall. Trace came out and put his hands on his hips, looking down at his Dog. Blake looked back up at him, anticipating.  
“You hungry, boy?” Trace asked. “I’m starvin’.”  
Blake barked, a happy doggie-grin on his face, and galloped in front of his master as they both headed down the hall to the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *READ FIRST*
> 
> *IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER*  
> I have no idea how pet-play works in real life, this is just how I would do it if I could.  
> DO NOT TRY PET-PLAY OR ANY KIND OF PARTNER FETISH WITHOUT RESEARCHING THOROUGHLY FIRST.
> 
> Came up with this after Trace Adkins said to Chelsey Handler about Blake Shelton, "He's like an animal. You gotta spank 'im when he's bad, give 'im a treat when he's good...he's not real smart."

Trace fed the heeler and spaniel, scooping measured helpings of the meaty mix into their dishes; the dogs waited patiently just outside of the kitchen, seated beside their big brother who also waited for his dinner, but he would eat after them.  
Trace whistled a particular tune, and the two dogs came running, straight to their bowls, but stopped just before they reached them when the cowboy held his hand up. He made them pause for five long seconds, and then dropped his hand; the dogs scurried to their bowels and ate with gusto.  
He glanced back to the doorway; Blake sat against the frame, watching the dogs eat. Trace saw the gritted jaw and thin lips – he’d never seen that before, at least not since he and Blake first started doing this; it bothered him to say the least. Before he could think to hard on it, the dogs were finished, having scarffed their food with the voracity of starving men; he opened the back door and they tumbled outside to do their business and play.  
Keeping one eye on Blake, Trace went to the refrigerator and pantry to make his and Blake’s dinner. Most of his Dog’s was already made – pre-mixed before he’d gone to the store, and he needed to add just a few more ingredients. He pulled out two tuppereware containers of seasoned deer meat and mixed vegetables in light butter and rosemary; he put them together in a bowl and mixed, and put it in the microwave to warm it up. While he waited he got his own food ready, corned beef sandwich on rye with a beer. He glanced over to the doorway; Blake still waited, but now his eyes were on his owner – this was normal, but there was still a nagging feeling in the back of Trace’s mind that something was off about Blake’s behavior tonight.  
The microwave beeped; using a hot-pad he took it out and piled the meal into a fresh bowl – he didn’t want Blake burning his face as he ate. He put the mix down by the bar where they normally ate, and stepped back. Trace whistled a unique tune, and Blake came running; Trace held up his hand five paces away from the bowl and Blake skidded to a stop, eyes on Trace. They held each other’s gazes for a while, watching, waiting, searching for visual cues; Blake looking for the ‘go-ahead’ to eat, and Trace looking for…  
Blake looked at his bowel and took a step.  
Trace clicked his tongue, a sharp snap, and his Dog looked up at him.  
“Back.” Trace said  
Blake didn’t move.  
The cowboy tilted his head and furrowed his brow; he pointed behind Blake.  
“Back!” He commanded.  
The crouching man hesitated, but then moved back three feet.  
They waited for a whole minute, every second drawing out; to anyone on the outside, this looked like a mere inconvenience, but to Trace and Blake this was a battle of wills, and this was the first time Trace had ever felt doubt about his place of power over his Dog.  
At long last he dropped his hand, gesturing to the bowl.  
“Go ahead.”  
Blake ran forward and dove into the dish, gobbling up the meat. Trace sat back on his barstool and ate his own meal, watching his Dog, and pondering.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that evening.
> 
> *WARNING* Explicit sexual content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *READ FIRST*
> 
> *IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER*  
> I have no idea how pet-play works in real life, this is just how I would do it if I could.  
> DO NOT TRY PET-PLAY OR ANY KIND OF PARTNER FETISH WITHOUT RESEARCHING THOROUGHLY FIRST.
> 
> Came up with this after Trace Adkins said to Chelsey Handler about Blake Shelton, "He's like an animal. You gotta spank 'im when he's bad, give 'im a treat when he's good...he's not real smart."

At the end of the evening, after the dogs had been let out one last time and put up in their pens for sleep, the two men wound up on the sofa; Trace reading, resting his elbow on the arm, Blake lying on the rest of the couch, his upper body pillowed in Trace’s lap, arms folded, pillowing his own head and dozing. His Master stroked his hair and neck, twirling his curls and petting the fine hairs at the base of his skull, gently tugging them from base to tip occasionally; the cowboy heard Blake sigh with contentment, and smiled – he couldn’t express how much he enjoyed moments like these.  
Their schedules had been so hectic these past two years; Country music was starting to become cool – still had a long way to go before people could say loud and proud they were fans, but one step at a time. Their fan-base had grown bigger and their tours had become longer, as had their time away from each other; in the thirteen years they’d been doing this, never had they been separated for so long, and Trace planned on making the next three months count – they couldn’t make up for two years in that time, but they could at least make a dent in catching up.  
Trace’s fingers played around his Blake’s collar for a few minutes before he undid the shiny clasp; the tan leather slipped from Blake’s neck and was pulled away. The roll-play was over.  
Feeling the cool air on his naked neck, Blake’s mind settled with ease back into Human; he sat up and stretched, his back and knees popping, blinking the sleep-haze from his vision. He started to rise to go get dressed for bed, but Trace pulled him back down, wrapping an arm around his naked waist.  
“Stay here just a bit longer.” Trace readjusted himself to lie on the sofa. Blake let himself be settled onto Trace’s body; long, denim-covered legs cradled his own, hands stroked his belly. His head fell back onto his mate’s shoulder, and he sighed again with deep happiness; it was clear to Trace that this was all Blake had been wanting when he was out on tour. The cheers from the crowed were all well-and-good, but nothing beat the affection he received from his Pack Leader, and to Trace, no amount of love the crowds could give him were enough to replace the love and affection Blake gave him.  
They lay in silence for a long time, enjoying the feel of each other’s bodies against their own, the soft ‘woosh’ of their steady breaths the only sound in the quiet house. The vulnerability of the Oklahoman and the old cowboy’s protective hold on him was something they both savored like fine wine – they couldn’t get enough of it.  
Trace looked down Blake’s naked body, drinking in the rise and fall of his hairy chest, the strands of brown hair curling around his pink-tan nipples, the soft belly and sweet bowel of navel, and the long and shapely legs that ran into next week. All his.  
Trace wove his legs around Blake’s and opened them, parting his creamy thighs; the Oklahoman whimpered, feeling Trace’s coarse-skinned hands drift light and slow up his trembling belly, travel down his sides and over his hips with equal leisure, sifting through his wiry, tightly coiled pubic hair and touching the base of his shaft and sensitive testicles. He curled his strong fingers around Blake’s penis and took his mate in hand, pumping him, slow at first, letting Blake ease into the rhythm, but it wasn’t long before he sped up the motion until he had the young man panting.  
Blake undulated his hips, pistoning into Trace’s hand; a sheen of sweat appeared on his body, coating him in gloss.  
“Good boy,” Trace encouraged. “You’re my good boy.”  
He cupped the younger man’s balls, fondling them as he increased the speed, tightening and loosening his grip as he pumped up and down and had the Oklahoman bucking his hips, whimpering and his body writhing, dampening his mate’s shirt with excited sweat. Blake’s cry when he came into Trace’s hand was a welcome sound – one of the most beautiful Trace had ever heard, and he chuckled, deep and throaty as Blake sank back into him, spent physically, panting like he’d run a mile. He patted the young man’s belly and rubbed his heaving chest.  
“Such a good boy.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *READ FIRST*
> 
> *IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER*  
>  I have no idea how pet-play works in real life, this is just how I would do it if I could.  
>  DO NOT TRY PET-PLAY OR ANY KIND OF PARTNER FETISH WITHOUT RESEARCHING THOROUGHLY FIRST.
> 
> Eventual Shevine.
> 
> Came up with this after Trace Adkins said to Chelsey Handler about Blake Shelton, "He's like an animal. You gotta spank 'im when he's bad, give 'im a treat when he's good...he's not real smart."

_CRASH!!_  
The sound of shattered glass and shards skittering across the floor echoed through the big house. The dogs’ eats perked up and they froze in their tracks, looking back down the hall at their big brother. Blake Shelton stared in horror down at the shattered CMA award – he hadn’t meant to, he’d skidded around the corner too fast chasing the dogs in play and knocked right into the table holding the treasured award.  
“Oh my god…oh my god, oh no…oh no oh no oh no!!” He gripped his hair and shook his head, as though he could change reality by just denying its existence, but there it was, broken shards exploded out like a supernova on the wood floor. He’d broken Trace’s CMA award.  
The dogs stared at him for a moment, and then ran to their pens, knowing that their big brother had done something bad, and they didn’t want to be blamed for it; Blake wanted to call after them, scared to be left alone with his horrible, horrible mistake, but all that came out of his throat was a pitiful squeak. He felt panic-sweat dampen his plaid shirt and he covered his face with his hands, still shaking his head with vigor, trying to wake up from this rotten dream, but he couldn’t because this was real, too goddamn real. His mind raced, trying to come up with a plan to fix all of this and make it so he didn’t get into trouble, but all at once there was a blur of ideas and at the same time a big blank slate. He was fucked.  
His head snapped up from his hands and the shattered mess and his stomach jumped into his throat when he heard the car door slam; Trace was back, oh fuck, Trace was back! Blake heard the booted feet coming up the drive, each footfall like a clock ticking away the last few seconds he had on this earth, but he didn’t leave the scene of the crime, he couldn’t; he flinched when the front door opened and his heart wrenched when he heard his mate call out a cheerful. “I’m home!”  
Fight or flight was the two main responses to situations like this, but Blake discovered a third: Freeze. He couldn’t move a muscle though his brain screamed at him to run; Trace’s footsteps echoed in the big hall, his leather heels heavy and booming in Blake’s ears, a death-knell playing just for him. Trace turned the corner and smiled at him. Then his eyes landed on the shattered glass.   
The smile left the cowboy’s face, disbelief and dismay replaced the happiness of being home; his eyes darted up to the guilty face of Shelton’s, and in that instant he knew what had happened, and with the gradual, unstoppable progression of an advancing thunderstorm shock was replaced with the dark shadow of anger. Without raising his hand, Trace snapped his fingers, a scowl of rage flashing over his bearded face, twisting his mouth; Blake dropped to all fours and ducked his head, keeping his eyes downcast. He was trembling in fear, almost in tears he was so frightened of the repercussions and apologetic for what he had done; he waited for Trace to grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him outside, shutting him out for he didn’t know how long.  
But no blow fell, no booming yells – only one word, laced with barely contained anger.   
“Outside.”  
Blake’s heart fell even further because he his punishment was worse than anything he had thought before; Trace was so angry he didn’t even want to touch him. Slowly, Blake crawled to the back door, Trace striding ahead of him, his back a stiff line and his hands balled into fists; the cowboy swung the door open and stood to the side, watching, a muscle in his jaw jumping.  
Blake slunk past Traces’ booted feet, fearing, yet almost hoping for a kick to his side or hip – he just wanted his pack leader to touch him, let him know that eventually all would be forgiven, because as long as Trace was still willing to touch him he’d know that he was still cared for on some level. He glanced up just before he stepped out onto the porch, hoping.  
Trace looked him right in the eyes, a dominating stare, and pointed to the vast backyard. No such luck.   
Blake sadly crawled out onto the porch, the hard wood rough on his hands and denim-covered knees; the door slammed behind him, and Trace pulled the curtain shut, blocking his Dog out of sight and mind.   
Blake sat down in front of the door for a while, hoping that perhaps this wasn’t as bad as it seemed – maybe Trace would let him back in if he was quiet and still. He waited, but nothing happened; gathering his courage, he pawed at the door-frame, his nails scraping on the wood, afraid that any noise he made would make it worse, but he wanted his master to remember he was there.  
 _‘I’m sorry.’_ He pleaded for his master to hear. _‘I’m sorry, please don’t forget about me.’_  
He remained there for a long time, but Trace didn’t come back. It was getting cold; he looked up into the sky, the sun was almost gone. Feeling terrible, he went down the steps upright, wincing at a sharp pain in his foot, and fell back to his hands and feet when he got to the soft grass. The only place there was for him was the shed halfway across the wide, green lawn. Moving slowly, he made his way over to the lonely shed, wincing again and again when he stepped with his left hand and foot, sharp pains laced up his arm and leg every time he put weight on them, adding another layer to his dejection.  
With his head hung low, he crawled into the shed and lay on his belly, head resting in his arms in the door frame, and stared at the porch, willing the door to open, for Trace to come out and forgive him. But the door remained shut tight, and Trace didn’t call for him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know where all of this is going, I just am having a heck of a time getting there, and I'm not happy with my writing-style in this story.  
> But I guess that's what happens when you're trying to just belt it out instead of lingering over every sentence like normal.
> 
> *READ FIRST*
> 
> *IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER*  
> I have no idea how pet-play works in real life, this is just how I would do it if I could.  
> DO NOT TRY PET-PLAY OR ANY KIND OF PARTNER FETISH WITHOUT RESEARCHING THOROUGHLY FIRST.
> 
> Eventual Shevine.
> 
> Came up with this after Trace Adkins said to Chelsey Handler about Blake Shelton, "He's like an animal. You gotta spank 'im when he's bad, give 'im a treat when he's good...he's not real smart."

Blake looked down at his palm and saw the inflamed skin and blood droplets; there were pieces of glass in the heel of his hand. He worked the first two out with his fingers, the third he had to use the corners of his teeth, but it eventually came out. He checked the pad of his left foot, and sure enough there was the same inflamed skin and blood; there were two tiny slivers of glass in the thick skin and he tried to work them out, but they were smaller, thinner and had gone deeper than the ones in his hand. After a long while of picking and prodding he gave up and put his head back in his arms, hopeless.  
He looked back up at the porch, the lighted door, the closed curtain, and wondered if Trace would ever forgive him. That award was one of his prized possessions; how could Blake have been so stupid? He had known running around the house like that was a bad idea, he knew chasing the dogs inside wasn’t allowed – that was what Trace had the huge backyard for, but he’d wanted to play. He could have taken them to the entertainment room downstairs – there was not only a large amount of space in that room, but the hallways were devoid of small tables with fragile items set just around the corner out of sight. He could have done that, but he’d kicked the squeaky-ball and the dogs had gone after it and they all got really into the game and it just got out of hand and…  
Part of him, deep down inside, had meant to do it though; he’d been planning it all day, hadn’t he? For the last few weeks even you could say he’d been building up to this moment; the jumping up when he wasn’t supposed to, not waiting for his food. There had even been the moments he’d been bad and Trace hadn’t said anything even though there had been no other culprit because the spaniel and the heeler knew better. But this plan had backfired – he didn’t realize he’d pushed his master too far, and now he was paying for it. The exact thing he was trying his damndest to avoid had happened, and now he was back at square-one, but this time it was by his own doing.  
 _“I’m sorry.”,_ He willed Trace to hear his thoughts. _“I’m really sorry. Please don’t hate me, Trace, please don’t hate me forever.”_  
He waited and waited, but Trace didn’t come back out; the sky turned the pale purple of twilight and the evening stars winked into existence one by one. Three hours had gone by, three of the longest hours of his life.  
He was so depressed that when the porch-light flicked on he didn’t notice, and when his master at last whistled for him, he didn’t hear it at first. The second whistle that floated through the evening air caught his attention though, that and his master’s beloved voice calling his name.  
“Blake! Come’ere boy! Come on, Blake!”  
Joy sang throughout Blake’s soul upon hearing his name being called by his master, and he scrambled upright and ran as fast as his legs would carry him to the back porch, unable to avoid limping as the glass sent shivering waves of pain through his foot. He flew up the wooden stairs, two at a time, and when he got to the deck he dropped back down to all fours, banging his knees on the wood, but hesitated in front of the door where Trace stood, his big form blocking the light from the house and casting a double-shadow over Blake – was his pack leader still angry with him?  
Trace stepped back a few feet from the doorway. He beckoned, and tentatively, Blake stepped over the threshold, uncertain. Once inside, Blake sat back on his haunches, head hanging, unsure of what was going to happen. Trace crouched down to Blake’s level, his eyes now soft and a warm, forgiving smile on his face; the cowboy held out his arms.  
“Come’ere, boy.”  
Blake yipped with joy and leapt into Trace’s arms; the cowboy embraced him, stroking his hair, caressing his face, petting his back – touching him, sweet, loving touches, each one letting Blake know he was cared for and still loved as much as ever.  
“I’m sorry I got so mad.” Trace whispered in his Dog’s ear, kissing the side of his head. “I wasn’t thinking; it’s time we talked though. Wildfire.”  
At the release-word, Blake eased out of his Dog-mind, the world around him reforming, slowly becoming clearer and more complicated; it took about a solid five minutes for Blake to re-adjust. Trace wasn’t about to rush him – it was like a deep-sea diver coming up for air, bring him up too fast and it could traumatize him. Once Blake was adjusted he stood tall again, shaking off the last three hours.  
“Trace,” he said, spreading his hands and looking very apologetic. “I am so sorry, I really am, I don’t know…I’ll replace it, I promise.”  
Trace put an arm around his mate’s shoulders. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he said. “My name’s in the record books still – unless you set it on fire or somethin’?”  
The Oklahoman laughed and shook his head, relieved not only that Trace was smiling again, but was holding him close. They were about to head to bed when Blake planted his left foot and yelped in pain, startling Trace.  
“Whoa, hey! What’s wrong, boy?”  
He held Blake up and saw him favoring his left foot.  
“What happened?”  
“It’s from the – uh…” He pointed down the hall to where the award had been. “I couldn’t get them out.”  
“Alright, let’s get you to the sofa an’ I’ll take care of it.”  
After settling his mate on the couch, Trace got a big bowl of hot water and had Blake’s foot soak in it for a few minutes while he found a needle and tweezers, dipping them in alcohol to sterilize them. After five minutes, the skin of Blake’s foot was soft enough that Trace was able to go in and work the glass out; it took a while. Blake lay on his stomach with his foot on Trace’s bent knee, the cowboy hunched over, pressing the sides of the tiny cut open with the tip of the needle and trying to work the sliver out at the same time.  
Blake whimpered and twitched, but for the most part he was able to remain still as his mate worked out one tiny shard and then a second; it had taken almost fifteen minutes to get those out. Trace cleaned and dried Blake’s foot, set the water and tools aside and pulled his mate into his arms, letting him rest his head on his broad shoulder. They stayed like that for a while, Trace letting Blake touch his body through his shirt, giving him as much time as he needed to run his hands up and down his back and over his belly and hips.  
“I think I know what’s goin’ on.” Trace whispered after a time. “An’ I’m gettin’ us some help.”


End file.
